back from the start
by Thalius
Summary: Ciri and Geralt still need to work over some bumps in their Path.


"Complete idiot."

Her voice drifted towards him, her tone as familiar as the words themselves. She'd said as much on the ride back to the Rosemary, and repeated it again for good measure when she'd helped him up the stairs.

He opened his eyes and found her glaring at him. Her jaw was set, a dark vial in her hand. A knife in the other.

"Put—put gloves on," he rasped, trying not to breathe too deeply. "Blood'll poison you…."

"Shut up."

He thought there was somebody else in the room with them. He looked from Ciri to where the shadows gathered in the corners. Flashes of violet and burgundy, feathers and gold. Dandelion. Was he speaking? He must be. He was never this quiet.

But that meant Geralt couldn't hear his friend. Perhaps that was more troubling. He'd not catalogued any damage to his hearing, but the assessment of his injuries had been made in a compromised state.

A firm hand on his chin brought his focus back to Ciri. Her face was close now, green eyes furious. Her fingers were black with his blood and hot on his face, tainted from earlier preparation, but he couldn't move his jaw to protest. "You lied to me," she said, her voice even more furious.

"You're not ready for an ekimmara," he replied, his speech slurred from the grip she had on his face.

"You _lied," _she repeated. "And you don't know what I'm capable of. You're an idiot. And a liar. I never took you for either." Ciri pinched his mouth open and forced him to drink something. The potent, bitter taste of Swallow filled his mouth. He was already nauseated from the potions he'd taken earlier, and this wouldn't help. He sputtered but got it down, and when it was drained, she smashed the empty bottle on the floor in anger.

Then he did hear Dandelion speak. "Ciri, I understand you're upset—"

"And it seems," she continued, unbuckling Geralt's jerkin with more force than necessary. Any straps that had been twisted up or jammed in the fight she cut without a thought. "That you're not ready for one either. You'd have died had I not found you. What would I tell Yen?"

He faded out for a bit, his head pounding, his body throbbing. He could taste his blackened blood in his mouth, sour and far too hot. Ciri would have burns on her hands.

Geralt woke sometime later, stripped of his gear and laid out on the mattress, covered in furs. Cold sweat drenched him, but he suppressed a shiver.

He could hear the beating of a heart, steady but fast. No footsteps, but someone was moving around the room. Quiet sniffling, angry breaths. Ciri.

He cleared his throat, and immediately she moved to him, her hand on his arm. The anger in her voice was gone now, replaced with worry. "Geralt?"

"Awake," he said, and grimaced at the taste of his mouth. "How long…?"

"The rest of the night and most of the day. It's late evening."

He reached for the hand on his arm and brought her fingers into view. A lantern was lit by the window, enough for him to see. The skin around her fingernails was swollen and red. "Honey and verbana," he whispered. "Steep them both in clean water and soak your fingers in it."

She didn't respond to his advice. But her hand didn't move away either, so he held it and let it rest against his chest overtop the furs. He listened to her heart, the beat of it slowing. He closed his eyes again.

Just as he was about to drift off, she spoke. "It was a long night," Ciri said. "You nearly died."

"Not the first time."

"I found you down in that cellar," she continued, ignoring him. "You hadn't bled out only because the ekimmara died on top of you. I had to drag you up into the streets and put you on your horse."

He said nothing, because he knew she had more to say. She paused for a moment and took a breath. "You told me you were going to see a merchant. You told me we were to complete this contract together in the next few days. You lied to me."

Geralt opened his eyes and found her watching him. The anger had returned, but the betrayal on her face was far more difficult to look at.

"You saw what it did to me. Couldn't let you near it."

"We are on the Path together," she said. "You're not leading me. We hunt as one."

"I know."

"But you did it anyway."

He took his time in responding. He didn't want to say it the wrong way. "Can't lose you, Ciri. Not in some rich jackass's cellar. Not after everything."

"And I will not bury another witcher." Her eyes shone, her jaw tight. "Do you hear me? I will not attend another witcher's funeral, most of all your's."

He looked to the floor, unable to watch the expression on her face. He found the broken vial still there, scattered in bits across the floorboards. His blood smeared the wall where she'd set him down the night before, dried even blacker now.

"Gonna have to give Dandelion a cut of our earnings to clean up this mess," he said, and regretted the joke the moment her hand left his and she stood up. His throat closed up around the hard pit that suddenly formed there, making it difficult to breathe. Ciri moved towards the window—away from him, her back turned.

He searched for more words. The right ones this time. He watched her as he did, her shiny-red, burned fingers gripping the wood of the window frame in front of her. He could feel her disappointment—in him, in herself. It hurt more than her anger ever could.

He sat up once he decided what to truly say to her, the bed creaking as he shifted around. Ciri turned to watch him struggle up but did not offer to help him. He was breathing hard by the time he'd swung his feet over the edge of the bed, and the wood was cool on his feet.

Geralt looked up. Ciri was still looking at him.

"Every contract we take, we do together," he rasped, and cleared his throat again. "If it's too dangerous, we don't accept."

"And I suppose you will be the one to decide what's too dangerous?" Her tone was sharp, the words spit over her shoulder. Her hands still gripped the wood.

He clenched his jaw. The words were right, he thought, just in the wrong order. Something else had to come first. "I'm sorry," he said, and her face instantly softened. "I'm sorry, Ciri."

She moved quickly, pushing off from the window and striding across the room. Her arms wrapped fiercely around his shoulders, her face burying deep into his neck. He felt the tears on her cheeks wet his skin, and he pressed his his nose against her shirt.

"You scared me," she whispered. "Terribly."

He couldn't lift his right arm, but his left pulled her close as she knelt beside him. "I'm sorry," he said again, and pulled away to look at her. "I won't—I won't do it again."

"Good." She brushed his hair from his face and gave him a smile, then sat back on her heels. "We can take it slow. We have time. I forget that so often now. If you believe a job is too risky—I won't push you again. I promise."

He nodded, the knot in his throat releasing its hold. "It's been a long road," he told her. "And we're still strangers. It'll take some time to get into a proper rhythm."

Her brows drew together, though not because she disagreed. "I don't want to be strangers," she whispered, sounding startlingly close to the little girl he'd found in Brokilon.

"I don't either. So we'll take it slow."

She let out a sigh, nodding back to him. Her expression turned resolute. "It's just drowners and nekkers from here to Vizima."

"Hopefully not for that long. You're a good swordswoman. And excellent company."

Ciri smiled from the praise, and stood up to cast about the room. "I'll fetch you some clean clothes. And your purse," she added, her grin now cheeky. "It's your blood on Dandelion's baudy walls, not mine."

"Thought you said we're walking the Path together."

"Doesn't mean I'm sharing coin with you," she replied with a flash of teeth, and then she disappeared from the room, quick and agile and quiet as a witcher. He watched the door shut softly behind her and smiled to himself.


End file.
